


Trick or Treat

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Frottage, Halloween Costumes, Intimacy, Love, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Praise Kink, Shibari, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 22:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21005489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: “Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale sighs.“They turned me into somethingcute, angel,” the demon says snippily. “The least I can do is embrace the Halloween spirit and disparage her reputation as well.”“And you want to take a photograph as your countermove?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “You’ve met Miss Device, Crowley. Do you imagine she won’t escalate?”“Not if Iwin,” Crowley retorts.





	Trick or Treat

**Author's Note:**

> I entirely blame [Ginger Haole's Crowley-in-slutty-witch Halloween costume](https://gingerhaole.tumblr.com/post/188140891887/crowley-invented-slutty-halloween-costumes-pass) prompt. And, of course, it did not go as expected. Because they never bloody do.

“Angel!”

Crowley’s agitated shout from the main body of the house is enough to make Aziraphale look up, startled. He’s been working through his books again, trying to – still – put the shelves into some kind of order. And, as usual, he found himself hopelessly enthralled in a 16th century tome.

“My dear?” he calls, marking the page. “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Crowley’s voice approaches accompanied by clattering footsteps. It sounds like heels on the wooden floor. “Wrong!?! Oh, it’s far worse than _wrong_. I will not _stand_ for this slander!” he storms into the room and Aziraphale’s mouth opens, but before he can say a word, the demon thrusts his mobile telephone in Aziraphale’s face. “Look at that abomination!”

It’s _awfully_ hard to concentrate on the telephone when Crowley is wearing an outfit one can only call rather… revealing. Still, he forces his eyes to the screen to peer at a photograph.

“Oh!” he says with delight. “Look! It’s little Maria!” He takes in the toddler’s outfit and cannot help laughing, but hastily covers his mouth to stifle it. “Oh dear…”

“Oh dear, he says,” Crowley growls. “Oh _dear_. The bloody witch dressed their baby up as _me_.”

And she looks utterly adorable too, beaming, wearing a trailing bodysuit with a snake mask on her head and scales painted on her cheeks. She’s also holding a half-eaten apple.

“Isn’t that something of a compliment?” Aziraphale suggests, trying desperately hard to hide his smile. “I mean, I would be flattered if someone dressed up as me.”

“Oh, this isn’t a compliment.” Crowley whips his phone away and bares his teeth. “This is war.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Up you get, angel. I need a photographer.”

Aziraphale allows himself the indulgence of looking Crowley up and down from head to toe. The mesh black blouse might have been modest, covering him from neck to waist with frilled cuffs around his wrists, except it was completely transparent. An inverted black pentagram of straps outlined his torso, the lower tip pointing strategically downwards towards the… exceptionally small shorts, stockings and high-heeled boots. The outsized pointed witch’s hat he is slapping irritably against his leg makes everything clear.

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale sighs.

“They turned me into something _cute_, angel,” the demon says snippily. “The least I can do is embrace the Halloween spirit and disparage her reputation as well.”

“And you want to take a photograph as your countermove?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “You’ve met Miss Device, Crowley. Do you imagine she won’t escalate?”

“Not if I _win_,” Crowley retorts, beckoning. “Come on! I want to do it in the garden!”

Aziraphale tries to be good, but sometimes, Crowley makes it far too easy. “Again?”

“Ngk!” Abruptly, the demon is as red as his hair and flaps a hand, before hurtling back out of the library. A few seconds later, clearly having composed himself, Crowley whines, “_Angel_!”

Aziraphale smiles fondly and gets up, following him back through the house and into the garden.

It really is the perfect evening for it, with ominous clouds as a backdrop, blades of sunlight turning the edges as golden as the leaves on the trees. Crowley is arranging a camera on a tripod, the witch’s hat wedged firmly on his head.

“You just need to press the button,” he says. “S’easy.”

“You _could_ have done it yourself,” Aziraphale points out with a small smile. “Don’t you have that dental device in your telephone? You made such a fuss about it when you got the camera.”

“Dental?” Crowley groans. “You mean Bluetooth? Sometimes, I swear you do it on purpose!”

Aziraphale beams at him. “And you’ll never be sure, my dear.” He leans down to peer through the peephole of the camera. “Just press the button?”

“Yeah.” Crowley bounds around in front of the camera and snatches a broom up from the lawn, straddling it. He leans back, holding his hat in place, reminding Aziraphale awfully of an incident involving some rather rude rancheros in the south western parts of the now-United States.

Once more, the temptation arises.

“Say yee-ha!” He presses the button precisely as Crowley shoots him a look of utter indignation.

“Don’t you bring that up!”

Aziraphale peeks over the camera, eyes dancing. “Well, you chose the pose, my dear.”

Crowley glowers over the rims of his glasses. “A technicality.” He snaps his fingers and the broom jumps into the air, hovering. He leans back in a much more provocative manner, or at least it might be, if he wasn’t swearing profusely and wobbling.

Aziraphale really does try to keep his face straight as he takes several more pictures. One, at least, doesn’t look like Crowley is about to pitch off the broom. “That’s rather showing off, don’t you think?”

Crowley made a face at him, alighting on the ground. “I think I know something you’ll like better.”

Aziraphale peers over the camera. “Oh?”

The demon gives him wicked smile and rolls his hips in an utterly obscene manner, gyrating against the upraised handle of the broom in a way that makes Aziraphale’s hands twitch on the camera. The tip of Crowley’s tongue curls around his teeth and he arches a brow. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Perhaps.” Oops. It seems he pressed the shutter on the camera again. And again. And Crowley’s dirty grin widens.

“Perhaps,” he echoes, tossing his head, his back a sinuous arch, and still his hips roll, and Lord, Aziraphale can well remember what that particular motion feels like against his body. In several configurations at that.

“I don’t think Anathema will… appreciate it as much,” he says, though he cannot tear his eyes from the demon’s body, the cling of the transparent fabric, and the rather enticing way the shorts are riding up. He is only here to take photographs, he chastises himself sternly. This is observation only, no matter the heat it is raising and the knots curling up in his belly.

Crowley straightens up, tapping the end of the handle of the broom against his chest. “Doesn’t know what she’s missing,” he sighs, though he flashes another teeth-baring grin for the camera. “Her and her wet witchfin… hm.”

That tone of voice is ominously familiar.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale cautions. “You better not be planning anything to incite the anger of a witch.”

“Not… anger, exactly,” Crowley says, then snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale’s lovely suit is gone, replaced with a much coarser and far less pleasant combination of corduroy and polyester and a greatcoat. “Crowley!” He looks down at himself in dismay. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Oh, come on, angel!” The demon laughs. “The witch needs a witchfinder!”

On one hand, Aziraphale supposes that he should be grateful that it’s a _fully-dressed_ witchfinder ensemble, as opposed to some variation of Crowley’s own costume. On the other hand, it’s utterly out of the question. “No!” A snap of his fingers returns his clothes to their usual state.

“Not that style?” Crowley snaps his fingers again.

Aziraphale stares down at himself in dismay, then reaches up. He even included the damned idiotic hat! “Crowley! You _know_ I hated the puritanical clothing! It itches like the devil!” A sharp gesture gets rid of the lot. “Now, stop it!”

Crowley is grinning far too much. “Or you’ll what?”

Well, there’s one way that he certainly knows that will work.

“Or I may just have to tie your hands to stop you doing it again.”

Crowley goes stone-still, his nostrils flaring, lips parted. “You will?” The hope and anticipation in the demon’s voice is utterly captivating. If only he had been without his glasses, it would have been a beautiful portrait.

“Only,” Aziraphale stresses gently, “if you do it aga–”

The snap of Crowley’s fingers is deafening in the breath-drawn stillness.

This time, the clothes are far more comfortable. Lace fans across Aziraphale’s shoulders and at his cuffs, his doublet beautifully-fitted cream velvet with pale blue silk peeping through the slashed sleeves. He touches the row of mother-of-pearl buttons down his chest, each engraved with his initial. Lord, Crowley knows how to indulge him.

And the threat and promise still hang in the air.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs with gentle reproach. “That was very naughty of you.” He barely flicks his fingers, drawing a sky blue rope from nothing. Well, not quite nothing. He has prepared this one himself, awaiting an opportunity to use it, and it’s soft and beautifully supple. He uncoils it, wrapping it around his hands.

Crowley looks quite beside himself, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, his hands twitching around the handle of the broom. He reaches up, tugging off and tossing aside his glasses, openly staring. “S’new,” he says, a little hoarser than before.

“Mm.” Aziraphale draws a length of the cord between two fingers. “Something a little more my style.” He takes a step closer, delighting in the way Crowley frantically swallows and tries to catch his breath. “So you _remember_ who is binding you, my darling.”

“Oh, fuck me…” Crowley moans.

“Perhaps later,” Aziraphale replies, forcing down a smile as Crowley turns beet red to the roots of his hair. “For now, I need to make sure you’ll behave yourself.” He glances down at the broom. “I don’t think you’ll be needing that, do you?”

Crowley tosses it aside at once. “Nah. Tacky anyway.”

Aziraphale smiles, soft and warm, and drapes the rope over his forearm like a butler with a napkin. “Now, let me see your hands, my love.”

The demon’s hands are shaking, but he holds them out at once.

“Very good.” Aziraphale lifts them together and bestows the lightest of kiss on each. Lord, Crowley is positively vibrating against his fingertips. “I remember you had some trouble last time, darling, so this time we’ll tie them in front. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

Crowley’s lips move soundlessly, but he nods, his fingers squeezing Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale slides his hands up a little and turns Crowley’s palm up. He cannot help but watch the hopeful nervousness in Crowley’s face as he traces the fine lines cobwebbing across Crowley’s palms with the balls of his thumbs.

“I know exactly what to do with a naughty little thing like you,” he murmurs, curving his thumbs over to skim a whisper of a touch on the bare skin of Crowley’s inner wrists, his lover trembling so violently he stills his touch. “Would you be a darling,” he says, opening his hands, but letting Crowley’s rest lightly in them. “Your sleeves. Roll them up.”

It’s a cruel kindness, that, as Crowley fumbles with the tiny round black buttons. He makes sharp frustrated sounds until both cuffs are open and he shoves both sleeves up, baring his forearms.

“I said,” Aziraphale murmurs with a tut, “_roll_ them up.” He lifts a hand to brush his knuckles down Crowley’s cheek, earning a sharp, indrawn breath. “We wouldn’t want them… getting in the way, would we?”

If Crowley’s hands were shaking before, he almost rips the fine fabric of his blouse in his haste to obey with defiantly wobbly fingers.

“Better?” He displays both forearms, bared to the elbow, and shudders as Aziraphale draws a single fingertip down the soft, smooth exposed flesh of his inner arm. Crowley’s hand twitches convulsively.

“Perfect.” The angel gently catches both of his elbows, bringing them together, then runs his own hands up until Crowley’s wrists meet and his fists are pressing neatly together. He smiles, lifting his hand again to brush Crowley’s cheek. “Now, you know the rules, my darling. If you have any concerns or would like me to stop…”

“I’d like you to get on with it,” Crowley blurts out, cheeks pinking.

The warmth washes through Aziraphale to the tips of his toes. “Oh, my love…” He closes his hands lightly around Crowley’s wrists, bowing his head to kiss his folded fingers. “And I thought you were the patient one of us.”

The flickering tip of Crowley’s tongue pokes between pouting lips. “You’re an insufferable tease, angel,” he grumbles, though his voice hitches on the last word as Aziraphale reaches for the length of pale blue cord.

“I don’t _tease_, my love,” Aziraphale says with gentle reproach, as he draws the looped cord between Crowley’s body and his arms, drawing it everso softly against the exposed skin. Back and forth, back and forth, letting him grow accustomed to the feel. “The definition of tease is someone who only implies without giving satisfaction.” He twines the cord into a closed ring around Crowley’s wrists and meets his eyes. “Have I _ever_ done that?”

Crowley shakes his head, swallowing hard. “S-see you found your thesaurus, eh?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “You _did_ insist on it,” he murmurs, twisting the second loop around Crowley’s wrists and drawing it snugly. “Now, how does that feel, my love?” He brushes his fingers along the cords, revelling in the goosebumps rippling on Crowley’s skin and the tiny, barely audible little gasp. “Not too tight?”

Crowley’s tongue flickers along his lips again. “S’good.”

He smiles and doesn’t resist the urge to utterly irk the demon. “_Lovely_.”

Crowley gives a half-hearted groan, though his eyes are now fixed on the rope and his knuckles are white spikes of bone beneath skin.

“You look rather nice in blue, don’t you think?” Aziraphale murmurs, watching him as intently as Crowley is watching the rope. “I got it especially. Softened it up by myself, you know. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“Ngh?”

Bight over, then looping under. “Mm.” He chuckles softly. “Not quite rolling it between my thighs or whatever it is they do, you understand, but–”

“Angel!” Crowley croaks, blushing beautifully.

Oh, he is a _delight_ when he’s flustered.

“Maybe next time, I’ll try that,” Aziraphale says, all wide-eyed innocence. “I imagine the texture would be quite…”

Gold eyes stare blankly at him, finally drawn away from the rope. “You…”

“What?” Aziraphale bites his lip. “Would you like to help?”

Crowley makes a sound both desperate and utterly inhuman, swaying forward, and – for a moment – Aziraphale shows mercy, catching the back of Crowley’s head and drawing him close enough to kiss him, the demon’s bound hands pressed between their bodies.

“Bastard,” Crowley breathes against his lips.

“On occasion,” he admits, curling his fingers in the fiery cascade of Crowley’s hair. He drops a last kiss on Crowley’s lips, then resumes the over-and-under of the rope, until Crowley is securely bound with two perfect bracelets of blue, the loose end of the rope hanging down beneath his wrists. Aziraphale catches the loose ends, wrapping it around one fist, and pulls Crowley’s hands downwards. “There. Nice and snug.”

Crowley gives a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah.” He uncurls his fists, wiggles his fingers, and when he looks at Aziraphale, there’s only happiness in his smile. “S’good.”

It’s remarkable how much that expression makes Aziraphale’s heart thump. He gives the cord a tug, pulling Crowley off balance and straight into his waiting embrace. “And you look _wonderful_ in it,” he says, his free arm wrapping around Crowley’s waist.

“Ha!” Crowley nuzzles his ear. “Biased.”

Ah, there’s that tone again, the dismissive, self-deprecating one that suggests Aziraphale is absolutely mistaken in every way.

“That,” he says very gently against Crowley’s ear, “is beside the point. You, my darling, are _beautiful_. The rope only enhances what is already there.”

“Nng!” Crowley protests. “Angel! Stoppit!”

Aziraphale steps back, gazing at the demon. Crowley is rosy-cheeked and flustered and barely even meeting his eyes. “You’ll forgive me, my love…”

He pulls the rope – and Crowley’s hands – mercilessly up, then steps in close, dragging Crowley’s arms down to drape over his shoulders. The knots around the demon’s wrists means there is very little space between them, nose to nose, eye to eye, and Crowley is staring, his chest rising and falling sharply against Aziraphale’s own.

The rope slithers from Aziraphale’s fingers, forgotten for a moment.

“You, my darling, are _everything_,” he says, bringing both arms around to run the length of Crowley’s back.

The demon makes a low, anxious sound, shaking his head, and oh, that will never do. There is comfort in the way his fingers can weave so smoothly through Crowley’s hair, spreading just so on his scalp, twisting _just so_ and making him draw a sharp, shivering breath.

“Look at me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “Look at me.”

Golden eyes, pupils wide, stare at him.

“You are,” Aziraphale says with every bit of devotion he can muster, “everything to me. Do you understand?”

“Shouldn’t be,” Crowley croaks.

“Ah, ah.” Aziraphale tightens his fingers just enough and feels the tension ripple the length of Crowley’s body, even along the arms framing his neck. “When I questioned myself, you reminded me of my worth. Now, I want you to know you are every bit as good and kind and brave and _worthy_ as they never told you.”

“Angel…” There’s plea in Crowley’s shaking whisper, and awe.

“You are,” Aziraphale says, more gently this time. “You _saved_ me, my love. Time and again.” His own voice is more than a little tremulous. “Demon you may be, but that doesn’t mean you are any less worthy of being loved.”

Crowley sniffs and clears his throat. “Trying to get me mushy, angel?” he whispers.

Aziraphale runs his hand the length of the demon’s back, revelling in the way Crowley’s body ripples under his hand. Through the fine mesh of the shirt, he can feel the smooth unevenness of scales flaring the length of Crowley’s spine. “Darling, do I still need to _try_?”

They stare at each other, both trying very hard to keep their faces straight and failing.

Crowley laughs damply, leaning into him. “Soft bugger.”

He presses his lips together in a small, suppressed smile and curls his fingers, _raking_ the length of those delicate scales. Crowley’s eyes widen, a low, guttural moan slipping through his parted lips. Oh he looks _ravishing_. Or, perhaps more accurately, ravishable. Oh, it would be lovely to be able to preserve that expression for posterity, if only…

He splays his hand low on Crowley’s back, tugging the mesh shirt inexorably up until skin meets warm, supple skin. “Darling, may I ask something of you?”

“Ngh?”

Aziraphale brushes his cheek along Crowley, shivering pleasantly at the hot, panted breaths close to his ear. “I would very much like to take some pictures of you. Like this.” He can feel the tension returning and kisses Crowley’s throat tenderly. “Not for any tawdry purpose, my love. Only so I can preserve how _wonderful_ you look like this.”

“L-like this,” Crowley echoes. “Like _what_, ‘xactly?”

Aziraphale gently nips his earlobe. “_Mine_.”

The sound Crowley makes is almost enough to have Aziraphale make an effort at once. “Fuck, angel…” he breathes so raggedly that it is almost a sob. “_Aziraphale_…”

Aziraphale pulls him closer, loosening his fist in the demon’s hair, combing his fingers soothingly through the long, loose waves. “Hush, love, hush,” he murmurs, his hand trembling against Crowley’s back. His lover is shivering in his embrace, though he’s not making a sound. “It’s all right. You’re fine, my love. You’re fine.”

For a long while, they just stand there, until Crowley draws a shaking breath.

“S’your fault,” he whispers. “Saying stuff like that.”

Aziraphale kisses his throat lightly. “I left it unsaid for far too long. You’re just going to have to get used to it, aren’t you?”

Crowley half-laughs. “Pushy bastard.” He leans back far enough to look at Aziraphale, his eyes bright and damp and solid gold in the afternoon light. “D’you really want some photos, then?”

Aziraphale schools his expression to one of serene innocence. “Well, I do need _something _to look at when I entertain myself in your absence.”

“Gna– you– ANGEL!”

Aziraphale laughs, squeezing him warmly around the waist. “Something for the bedroom would be nice.” He lifts his hand to caress Crowley’s arm. “You do look delectable when you’re bound.” He counts down from three and right on cue, Crowley’s cheeks blossom. “And very pink.”

“S’the compliments,” Crowley complains happily, nudging the tip of his nose against Aziraphale’s. “You dirty great cheat.” He considers Aziraphale, then glances beyond him. “S’pose we do have the camera out already, don’t we?” A grin plays about his lips, something that makes Aziraphale rather suspicious. “Why don’t you go and get it?”

Aziraphale presses the back of his fingers under Crowley’s arm, urging him to lift them. “I’d be delighted to,” he says, deliberately turning his back once he is free. If Crowley is up to mischief, he cannot deny that he’s curious what it might be. He takes his time removing the camera from the stand, though he is certainly paying enough attention to hear the muffled snap of demonic fingers. He’s fairly sure he can hear snickering as well.

Enough to know to brace himself when he turns.

And has to look down.

“Oh _Lord_…”

Crowley is kneeling upright on the grass, head bowed, not a stitch on, bound hands clasped in front of him, and it would almost be in an attitude of prayer, if not for the smirk playing about his lips and the way his hair is slowly sliding forward over his shoulders.

“_Crowley_!”

Golden eyes flick up and the smirk becomes that wonderful wicked grin. “Problem, angel?”

Aziraphale opens and shuts his mouth, trying to find a suitable argument, then recalls the machine in his hand and settles for pointing it and pressing the button several times instead. Crowley wrinkles his nose, sitting down on his heels.

“I was hoping for indignation,” he says.

Aziraphale purses his lips in an appropriately indignant expression. “Well, _yes_,” he says, crossing the grass. “I suppose I ought to be.” He curls one finger and the trailing ends of the rope leap to his hand and he tugs Crowley’s arms upwards. “After all, I _told_ you no more changing.”

“Ah, ah!” Crowley wags a finger at him, his eyes shining. “You said no more changing you! Never said a _thing_ about changing me.” He grins, peeking around his bound and upraised wrists, flickering his tongue out.

Oh, it’s a delight to see him in _that_ mood, all his distress and fear of his wrists being bound forgotten in place of mischief. Which also means Aziraphale feels no qualms at all about wrapping the rope more securely around his hand, pulling it – and also Crowley – up.

“Do you really think this is the time for semantics, my darling?” Aziraphale murmurs, stooping over him and pulling Crowley’s bound hands against his own heart. “I ought to take you in hand for such misbehaviour.”

Crowley stares up at him, lips quivering suddenly with a sharp breath. He uncurls a finger, tugging at the lace of Aziraphale’s collar, his throat working as he tries his best to swallow. “Can I make it up to you, then?” His tongue darts along his lips. “Maybe… maybe take you in hand?”

Oh _Lord_, he can be so tempting, even without really trying.

“Is that what you would like to do?” Aziraphale asks, forcing his voice to steadiness.

Crowley nods at once.

“Well, then that’s hardly a punishment for such… misbehaviour, is it?” Aziraphale twists the rope a little tighter around his hand. “I think I should do something much more fitting.” A flicker of trepidation skim across Crowley’s face, but he doesn’t recoil or retreat. Aziraphale smiles and draws on the rope. “Down, I think.”

“Down?”

Never taking his eyes from the demon’s face, Aziraphale kneels, using the cord to take Crowley down with him. The grass is cool and with a gentle pull on Crowley’s bonds, Aziraphale brings him all the way down, to lie on his side, his hair a flaming spill around him, his eyes wide and watchful.

“You have no idea how lovely you are, have you?” he murmurs, letting the ends of the rope slither loose between his fingers.

Crowley makes a small sound, colour already blooming across his cheeks.

Aziraphale smiles, reaching out to stroke his hair back, hooking it over his ear, gathering stray strands and pushing them over his shoulder. “All the words in every one of Shakespeare’s sonnets couldn’t do you justice, my love.”

“Angel…” Crowley shifts self-consciously, his hands drawn up before his chest.

In the fading evening sunlight, his skin is painted in hues of gold, the freckles scattered like an inversion of the night sky, dark on light. He shivers all over as Aziraphale traces out the constellations he can find there with the lightest of touches. A single finger mapping this fresh stretch of the Heavens.

“You know I could spend hours touching you and it would never be enough,” he says softly. “You are… utterly remarkable, my darling.” Crowley’s ribs rise and fall sharply beneath his hand. “Lord, every time I think you can’t surprise me anymore, you do. Every day is such a wonder with you.”

To his utter delight, Crowley presses his face as much as he can into his bound hands, making small, breathless sounds.

“Yes, love,” he says, softly, warmly, enthralled, as he brushes Crowley’s pink cheek. “I’m going to keep on telling you exactly how much I love you.” He leans down over him and nuzzles the shell of his ear. “And I will preserve you for posterity in pictures, because I can never, ever have enough of you like this.”

“Bastard.” The work breathes through trembling fingers, but when he kisses Crowley’s cheek, Aziraphale can feel the shape of a flustered, bashful smile against his lips.

“Only a little one,” he murmurs, coiling a single strand of red around his finger. He gazes at his lover, spilled out in the sunset’s glow, the red of his hair, the blue of his bonds, the green of the grass and – as his fingers part – the golden, burning gleam of his eyes. “Stay perfectly still, my love.”

The camera is simple enough to operate, though he wonders if he is doing it right. It would be such a loss to lose such a perfect image.

“It’ll behave,” Crowley murmurs, as if he can read Aziraphale’s thoughts. “Anything you take, it’ll be perfect.”

Aziraphale laughs. “You’re an indulgent creature, my dearest,” he says, leaning down to kiss Crowley’s cheek again. “But I’m an angel, not a photographer.”

Crowley tilts his head, dropping his hands, to claim a kiss. “It’ll behave,” he says again. “Take exactly what you want.” His golden eyes flick to the camera, then back. “I guarantee it.”

Aziraphale nuzzles the tip of his nose. “And you’d let me, wouldn’t you, darling? Whatever I want, you’ll let me.”

Crowley makes a soft sound, assent, and shifts partway to his back, gazing up at him. “You want that?”

Aziraphale nods. “I know it’s a very… mortal notion, my darling, but I like to keep my most precious things close to me.” He brushes his hand down the demon’s side, freckled skin trembling under his fingertips. “Even if you must sometimes be elsewhere, at least I will still be able to see you.”

Crowley curls in on himself, all but coiling around Aziraphale, folding his arms up to tuck his face into the crook of his elbow. He is shivering still, but when his eyes open, they are bright and brilliant and bracketed by lines of happiness.

It makes the most beautiful shot, framed all about by his arms and hair and the brilliant blue of the cords at his wrists. Aziraphale has to take a moment, simply _looking_ at him, drinking in the magnificence of the creature he has chosen to love and who has chosen to love him in return.

“If I could,” he murmurs, “I would show everyone all the wonders I see in you.”

Crowley’s snicker is muffled in the crook of his arms. “F’you did, you might get arrested for indecency on a public forum,” he says, lifting his head, his eyes dancing.

For that, another photograph is taken, and another when he wrinkles his nose and sticks his forked tongue out.

“You know what I mean, my dear,” Aziraphale says fondly, running his hand along Crowley’s flank again. “Although…”

“Mm?”

Aziraphale gazes at his hand, watching the beautiful dimples forming in Crowley’s sleek skin as he presses _just so_. “Do you remember that book you gave me?”

Crowley shifts under his hand. “Which one? S’been a few?”

“The… most recent.” The one that brought to light Crowley’s secret desire. The one that is the reason for the blue cords and the beautiful images that haunt Aziraphale’s imagination. He can tell from the flush spreading across Crowley’s shoulders that he understands. “I would very much like to make something like that.” He slides his hand back up, over Crowley’s ribs, cradling him. “Of you. With you. For us.”

“Ngk!” Crowley squirms around, burying his face in Aziraphale’s thigh, his hair sliding down over him like a veil. “_Fuck_, angel…”

The blush is spreading rapidly and oh, it’s lovely. He only flushes so much when he is particularly interested and Aziraphale adores it. “I would, you know,” he murmurs, splaying his hand between Crowley’s curled shoulders. “I would bind you _any_ way you asked me to. I would _love_ to do that for you, my darling.”

“…please…” It said so softly, so faintly, he barely hears it, but he feels it against his thigh, the shape of Crowley’s lips, and his mouth is at once dry. To be trusted so, with something so very intimate and secret, something Crowley would and has never asked anyone else for.

His hand trembles a little as he brushes Crowley’s hair. “Of course, darling.” He taps once with a fingertip. “Although I may need a little more practise.”

Crowley lifts his face, his eyes wide and alight, then wriggles up from side to knees to leans in close and kiss him clumsily. “As much as you like,” he insists, his bound wrists pressing warmly to Aziraphale’s chest, bracing him there. “Whenever. Any time.”

Aziraphale can’t help but smile. “Impatient, aren’t we?” He sets aside the camera and takes Crowley’s face gently between his hands, kissing him softly. “Now… about your earlier suggestion…”

The snake-smile is back. “Yeah?” Crowley rocks back to sit on his heels, looking down expectantly. “Can I? Or d’you want to? Or–”

It’s a terrible thing to tease with, but Aziraphale widens his eyes. “Oh, but what if it’s not in any mood to be played with?”

Crowley gives him the most perfectly astonished incredulous stare and abruptly pushes the ends of Aziraphale’s velvet coat out of the way, making remarkably quick work of the intricate little buttons holding the front of his breeches in place. He pulls them open, then raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Going to give me something to work with here, angel?”

It only takes a little whisper of a miracle for Aziraphale to change his form, but as soon as he does, as soon as two warm hands close around it, he knows any pretence is as good as dead, his breath hissing between his teeth.

“Knew it,” Crowley says, happily smug. He folds his fingers together, sliding his hands slowly, gently up and down and Aziraphale’s own fingers sink – one into grass, one into Crowley’s hair.

“I swear the damned thing has a mind of it’s own,” he complains, though his voice is straining a little, the rough pressure of Crowley’s callused fingers utterly intoxicating. His hips, it seems, also have a mind of their own, pushing against Crowley’s hand, and Crowley is grinning as if he has won the jackpot, which…

Oh, no, that’s not for today. Today, as long as he wears Aziraphale’s bonds, he will be charming and flustered and dazed and giddy and not rendering all of those things upon Aziraphale.

It does, however, take considerable restraint for the angel to reach out and close his hands around Crowley’s, lifting them off his… appendage.

“Angel!” Crowley protests. “You said–”

“I have a suggestion,” Aziraphale cuts over him, meeting Crowley’s eyes and squeezing his warm, rough fingers. “If I may.”

“S’long as I get to touch,” Crowley says, baring his teeth.

“Oh, I can guarantee that.” Aziraphale’s cheeks flame. Lord, it feels like something far naughtier than simply hands, which is absurd. They have touched one another all over. This shouldn’t be anything different, and yet, as he draws Crowley’s hands up to rest low against his belly, the sight of the blue cord and those thin, fine wrists. He bites his lower lip, then rocks his hips up, sliding his hardness between Crowley’s wrists, so close, he is almost brushing the rope.

Crowley makes a sound of exquisite agony and wonder and Aziraphale forces his eyes up. Crowley’s eyes are fastened on the place where their bodies meet, his lips parted, and he presses his wrists together, a little tighter and oh, oh, sweet Lord…

“Fuck…” Crowley’s voice sounds like a prayer. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…”

Aziraphale’s hand shakes as he catches Crowley’s hair again. “Good?”

“Gnerf!”

A little more pressure and Crowley catches up with Aziraphale’s wordless invitation and lowers his head.

Oh _Christ_… worse and better and all at once, Aziraphale’s thoughts are everywhere. Darting licks beyond the tight press, Crowley’s hands rocking, kneading against his belly, silken hair all around him, all over him. His fingers twist in Crowley’s hair, a heated gasp slewing against his skin.

“Oh, Lord, Crowley… oh Lord, if they knew what they had lost in you,” he gasps out helplessly. “If they _knew_ what a wonder you are…” The moan against his throbbing erection sends sparks skittering through him and oh, he’s tearing at the grass with his other hand, trying to hold himself up, upright, not falling flat, helpless on the ground. “You are _magnificent_, my love… so… oh… oh fuck, Crowley…”

Crowley’s hands knead more urgently with the ripple of his wrists, the tightness as delicious as the heat and laps of his greedy mouth. He’s spilled there, devouring, gorging, golden and writhing, the flaming constellations under the corona of his hair and Aziraphale has never – can never – will never see anything as– as– as–

Sound breaks from him. Sound raw and ragged and he’s falling, gasping and shaking as the pleasure crashes in on him, heat and brightness and the hungry, loving devotions of the one creature in the world who should never have been able to worship him.

The grass is cool around his head, the blades tickling his face, and he stares sightlessly at the cloud-decked sky.

And still, gently, attentively, lovingly, Crowley licks. He loosens his arms, sliding his hands up to rest, his fists a prayerful knot, over Aziraphale’s heart, and still he licks. Gentle laps, long slow strokes, tender suckling kisses, teasing flickers. He fills his mouth again and cleans and tends to every inch he can find. He nuzzles and kisses and against his thighs, Aziraphale can feel the sated, steady, rise and fall of his ribs.

“Crowley,” he finally murmurs, when the pleasant somnambulist warmth begins to wane and interest begins to rise again. “Enough, my darling.”

Crowley wriggles up the length of his body until they are face to face once more. His lips are swollen and flushed and utterly delectable. He searches Aziraphale’s face, then grins happily and kisses him lightly. He tastes of salt and sex and if it wasn’t turning so damned cold…

“I think we ought to take this inside, my darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, lifting a hand to stroke the length of Crowley’s back. “I won’t have you complaining of cold feet for the next three weeks if we stay out here.”

Crowley touches the angel’s lip, so softly and carefully with the tip of his pinkie. “And what new surprising kinky little things have you got up your sleeve once we’re in there?”

Aziraphale kisses his fingertip. “You’d have to come and see.”

“Come and see,” Crowley echoes. “Sounds like a reverse peep show, that.” He laughs when Aziraphale groans, and pushes himself up onto his knees, straddling Aziraphale’s hips. He sags there happily, looking the embodiment of utter contentment, his hair spilling around him in grass-tangled disarray, his hands dangling down in front of him. “This was a good idea. The garden. The pictures. The daft costume.”

Aziraphale chuckles as he sits up, patting his lover’s thigh. “You would say that about anything that gets you what you want.”

To his surprise, Crowley leans closer and drapes his bound arms back over Aziraphale’s shoulders. The cords are damp now – they’ll need to be untied soon too – but Aziraphale’s world narrows to Crowley, chest to chest with him, nose to nose, and the smile on his face is radiant, almost Heavenly in its brightness.

“Thank you,” he says with such soft sincerity that Aziraphale’s eyes rebelliously sting.

The most he can do is wrap his arms around Crowley’s back, splaying his hands on bare skin and warm, heavy hair, and say, “You’re eternally welcome, my love.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Trick or Treat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230788) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)


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